


A fun day at the zoo with Mycroft and Greg

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Series: Insights in the domestic life of the 221B Baker Street family [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitter Mycroft Holmes, Babysitting, Cute Rosie being cute, First Kiss, Fluff, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Insecure Mycroft, Lestrade Saves The Day, Lestrade is secretly a nerd, M/M, Mycroft being cute by accident, Parent John Watson, Parental Lestrade, Potterhead Lestrade, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Silver Fox Lestrade, Zoo, mystrade, rosie ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: Mycroft gauged the situation he found himself in and thought really hard about how he could possible change it with logic. Or maths. Maybe draw a venn-diagramm. Anything he felt remotely comfortable with.---Mycroft babysits. It goes about as well as expected. Greg to the rescue!





	A fun day at the zoo with Mycroft and Greg

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Sorry this one took ages, life has been crazy.   
> My first attempt at Mystrade, I guess it came out alright. I had much fun with these two and I'll most definitely include them regularily in this series.

In retrospective, most of it had been his own fault. Around 88%. The last 12% consisted on equal parts of the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and Sherlock. Also, Chance. Chance played a tiny little role in the outcome of the whole scenario, however a Holmes did not really believe in chance. Too pedestrian, too arbitrary, too superstitious. A Holmes did believe in maths and logic and graphs and venn-diagramms. Mycroft gauged the situation he found himself in and thought really hard about how he could possible change it with logic. Or maths. Maybe draw a venn-diagramm. Anything he felt remotely comfortable with.

When he had taken his only free day in over three months to come to his younger brother, to pay him a visit (not _pry around_ , mind you; Mycroft would _never_ do such a thing!), he had thought nothing of it. Maybe annoy him a bit, that always amused him. Drink some tea. Spy on- pardon talk about his interesting relationship with doctor Watson. Maybe have some biscuits. Leave before noon with all the needed, pardon…. Voluntarily shared information. _This_ , however. He did not sign up for _this_.

_This_ being the daughter of said doctor being rather hastily placed in his arms, the door behind the crime-fighting duo closing forcefully. Mycroft was, for the first time in a long while, left baffled and slightly aghast. Apparently, he was _babysitting_ now.

He. The British government. Babysitting a toddler. _Alone_. 

He could break off wars with the Middle East alone. He could avoid a financial crisis alone. He could defend the Crown alone. But the prospect of looking after a little human for a couple of hours alone uncomfortably disempowered him. People didn’t like Mycroft. Little people liked him even less. This particular little people had been under the influence of his insufferable brother and the stubborn doctor long enough to awake the prospect in him that she would especially not be fond of him.

Said child was, for the lack of a better word, also surprised at the sudden outcome of her Thursday morning. Mere minutes ago, she was idly colouring a picture of a lion; now she was in the arms of this tall intimidating looking guy, which bared slight resemblance with her beloved ‘Lock, and whom and his ridiculously difficult name she vaguely remembered from Christmas. Needless to say, she was displeased with the turn of events.

After John and Sherlock rushed out the door, shouting something about a very important case and Mrs. Hudsons who were away on holiday, there was an awkward silence between the unlikely pair. Mycroft, while appearing nonplussed on the outside, ran a mile in his mind, frantically wracking his brain for _any_ information about children and child-care in general.

How was he to introduce himself? Would there be handshakes? Stupid, of course not, the little person was already in his arms, it would be downright absurd to try a formal introduction now! What about activities? Hell, was it legitimate to just give her to Antea for some hours? Where were the unwritten laws of family bounds for this kind of thing?! He … cared for his brother to some extent, and he understood that his brother cared greatly about Dr. Watson and his offspring. Shove the daughter off to his PA would only lead to negative consequences in the long run. And he was the British Government, for crying out loud. When he refused to look after a child for a few hours out of lack of knowledge, he’d never hear the end of it.

He could do this. Mycroft Holmes would babysit Rosamund Mary Watson, and she would be _delighted_ with his company (and he could, in return, get his brother to solve some of his cases, to repay the favour he’s totally doing right now). When he met the girl’s gaze, his determination shrunk profoundly. She certainly was not pleased at the moment. And so very far away from delighted. That little lady already seemed to have healthy portion of common sense, for it seemed to be the common response to spend some alone-time with Mycroft Holmes.

“Hello, Rosamund” the politician did try not to let his cluelessness show. He was semi-successful. “I’m Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother. We met a couple of times”

Unimpressed, Rosie wiggled forcefully, until this My…Mycof…Myc fellow sat her down on the floor. She wasn’t necessarily mad or upset that Daddy and ‘Lock left in a hurry- they always came back (sometimes with a treat when she had been a good girl!) and always found someone she could play with. This Myc however. He didn’t look very fun. Or as if he knew very many games. Rosie was a smart girl for her almost four years, even she realized that her babysitter was kind of new on the job.

Now that he had relocated her to the floor, Mycroft once again found that he was at a loss of what to do with himself in this situation. The child shot him a glare, as if she wanted to challenge him. Certainly, a Watson. He had seen that small twinkle countless times before. This was not going well.

“Hello, Myc” Maybe his boat was on track. Relieved that the little human was happy to cooperate, he left the silly shortening of his name uncommented.

“Can we play?” Play. As in… games? Thing which could be considered….. fun? Which games did he know?

“Chess?” Clearly, fun wasn’t his division.

He took a moment to appreciate the ridiculousness of the situation: A grown-up, confident man, asking a toddler for a game of chess. Even he realized that this was probably the wrong approach. Rosie pouted.

“Something else!” Mycroft, now breaking out in sweat over his cluelessness of games, he smoothly tried to change the subject. “I see, you’re artistically inclined?”

Rosie, still pouting about the prospect of not getting to play with this Myc fellow, placed a possessive hand on her lion picture. “I like to colour”, she answered vaguely.

Suddenly, a thought popped into her mind; a thought that made her feel all giddy and maybe a tiny bit mischiefly. “Can we colour? With paint?” Daddy almost never let her use paint instead of crayons, because of the mess. Maybe her new babysitter wouldn’t mind mess so much, Daddy couldn’t be angry if he wasn’t there!

There were worse things than some art on a Thursday morning, Mycroft decided. Surely, the artistically gifted child would draw some delightful pictures until her guardians returned to find her encouraged and happy, and Mycroft would be rewarded with his brothers unyielding gratitude. Fool-proof plan. Nothing could go wrong, right?

 

 

Gregory Lestrade sang along to the radio when he drove up to Baker Street. It was his first day off in _decades_. After sleeping in and treating himself to a serving of full English breakfast, he was in such an extraordinary good mood, that he decided to bring Sherlock some of the paperwork the genius tried to avoid for at least a month. Sherlock would be extremely annoyed and Greg would be extremely giddy, because for once in a fucking decade, Sherlock’s mood swings were none of his business. Afterwards, he’d go to the park, maybe jog a few rounds. Or just sit down in the sunshine, with no murders or robberies or consulting detectives in his neck. He was _ready_. He was possibly euphoric. He even was happy enough to consider asking Mycroft Holmes out again. A couple of weeks before they went on a spontaneous dinner after Greg prevented Sherlock from accidently screwing up his relationship with John. It had been alright. There was good conversation and some flirtatious advances, but neither of them had really acted on them; they parted sated, although a bit unsatisfied. Maybe today, with his mood on a high, he would actually act on some of the amorous fantasies that had formed in his mind. Yes, today would be an _amazing_ day.

There were a couple of things he anticipated when coming to Baker Street. A friendly Mrs. Hudson, poking her head out of 221A; a grumpy John, making tea and complaining about a sulking Sherlock; the smell of something burning; violin music. None of these things occurred when he stepped through the doorstep, and for a moment, Scotland Yard’s greatest detective inspector (as he liked to call himself when nobody was listening) was flabbergasted. Before his very eyes unravelled a scene so impossible and amusing, that he didn’t know whether to give a surprised gasp or stifle a laugh.

There was paint. Everywhere. There was also Rosie. Covered with paint. Squealing delighted. There was the odd one out of this picture, Mycroft Holmes, protecting his expensive suit from incoming splashes of colour with an umbrella. Greg had never seen the politician this out of his element, this awkward, this clumsy. He was _endeared_ by it. 

“Am I interrupting the party?” he chuckled from his safe spot from the door. Mycroft’s slightly frantic gaze fell upon him and crumpled into an expression of relief.

“Gregory! Thank heavens!”

“G’eg! Fox!” the little Watson acknowledged his presence enthusiastically. She made grabby hands, the universal symbol for ‘pick me up’.  She was really quite fond of the DI, he had visited her a couple of times, and was always nice and funny, and read her picture books with a silver fox who looked just like him! Was he going to stay? Look after her? It would be so much fun!

“Hello, little bug” he greeted her good-naturedly, picked her up, and held her at arm’s length away from his blue button-down shirt. Meanwhile, Mycroft had enough time to discretely close his soiled umbrella and smoothed his suit jacket down. He resembled a bit more of his controlled normal self, safe the deep flush on his pale cheeks. How humiliating to be found exactly from the person he desperately needed in this situation, and loathed to see, because he wanted to impress him.

“Care to explain what happened here?” the inspector asked, while bouncing the little girl lightly. The politician had the decency to look sheepish, before he replied with his usual formal tone.

“I am babysitting”. Greg laughed at the sheer ridicule of the situation.

“More or less voluntarily, I assume?” Mycroft cleared his throat in a nervous fashion.

“I happened to be the only person of avail at the precise point in time”

Greg shook his head, sill laughing. “Do you have any idea about children whatsoever?”

There was a small pause, filled only with Rosie’s never ceasing babbling about paint and silver foxes.

“I… might lack certain skillsets”

“You’re clueless” “…perhaps”

Gregory Lestrade was a man with excellent leadership AND parenting skills, and switched into caregiver mood instantly. “How about we get nice and clean for starters?” he addressed the small Watson, who pouted a little bit. “No bath” she stated with a stubbornness of her father.  

“Please and fank you”

“Yes bath. You can’t charm me with impeccable manners… Although it wouldn’t hurt to teach some of them to a certain consulting detective” he mumbled under his breath, while he picked some pictures off the paint-splattered table. “Can you clean up this mess while I take care of Rosie?” he asked the politician, who still looked totally uncomfortable and out of place. “And stop looking like the middle east declared war; it’s just babysitting”

Mycroft forced a smile on his face, while he flushed an even deeper colour. His recent plan to impress the attractive DI was about to fly out of the window slowly, but steadily. Sighing, he began cleaning. Around 20 minutes after, Greg emerged with a paint-free Rosie Watson.

While bathing Rosie, he came to the conclusion that he really didn’t mind spending his free day babysitting…and he had planned on calling Mycroft anyway, and since Mycroft was already _there_ , maybe some more flirting could take place. Rosie had been talking endlessly (a trait, he couldn’t help but wonder if John inhibited it in the security of his home and found the thought of a babbling normally rather quiet doctor amusing), about the pictures she drew (she guided him to the table to show him her lion one) and all the animals she loved.

“Have you fed her?” Greg asked casually, noting it was probably time for a second breakfast. Mycroft gave him a blank stare.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake” the DI sighed expectorated. “What’s it with Holmes and nutrition?”

Mycroft frowned, and Greg rolled his eyes playfully. He friendly (and a bit boldly he might say) bumped the politician’s stiff shoulder with his own on his way to the kitchen. “C’mon; I’m starving for a second breakfast”

Mycroft, startled by the sudden and friendly contact for about a minute, couldn’t really hide his smile. While he had known the detective for around eight years, this was the first time that Gregory was this at ease in around him, probably due to the facts that a) No Sherlock was around and b) No Sherlock-centric conversations needed to be held. It filled him with a certain sense of security and warmth; like he always wanted the detective to be this at ease around him. Pushing these sentimental thoughts aside, he entered the kitchen to aid with the preparation of the food.

 

 

Half an hour later, Greg had an idea. The idea came to him through a number of different factors: The sun poked through the clouds for the first time in over a week; Rosie _still_ talked about animals; he was sick of spending all his time indoors (safe crime scenes).

“Hey Rosie” he started mystically, with a tone of voice that never failed to make his girls curious once upon a time. As predicted, it worked fairly well.

“How about we visit some real animals today?” The little girl thought hard about the meaning of the preposition of his statement (she was only three ¾ after all) for some seconds. “Let’s go to the zoo” Greg stage-whispered to help her understand.

Mycroft, who had been extraordinarily quiet let out a small sign, which was drowned out by Rosie’s squeals of joy. Under these circumstances, he guessed that his babysitter duty was fulfilled (both Dr. Watson and his brother were probably happier with the DI as a caregiver, anyway) and discretely stood up, ready to flee the room and ponder about the poor impression he must have left for the rest of the day.

“Excellent thinking, Mycroft! The sooner we get there, the better! C’mon, little bug (he lifted Rosie off her highchair) get your shoes and jacket” As soon as the child was off, he winked at the politician who gave him a confused look. “You’re in, right?”

‘No’ he thought. ‘It will only serve more possibilities to show you how inept I am with social contacts, how awkward I can be when out of my element and I really don’t need any more of this humiliation today’

“Sure,” he said. The smile Greg gave him made up for some of the protests of his inner voice.

 

 

The car-ride to the zoo was filled with excited toddler babble from the backseat; while the two adults sat in the front in a semi-awkward silence. Greg answered once or twice to the strings of sentences which could be identified as questions, but other than that he stayed quiet. While silence normally didn’t bother him so much, Mycroft kind of dreaded it now, for it gave him time to think, time to dwell, time to realize over and over again how much of a not good idea this whole ordeal was. Oblivious to Mycroft’s inner turmoil, Greg looked at him from the corner of his eyes from time to time, smiling to himself. Although it technically wasn’t really a date, it was a fun time activity shared with the person he was interested in, and so far this new side of the politician didn’t disappoint him. It was almost endearing and certainly delightful to watch a version of Mycroft that wasn’t all business and put-together. It made him younger; softer; much more human. ‘Maybe’, Greg thought idly to himself, ‘this is the chance to melt my ice-man a little’.

Just as he was slipping a little deeper into that thought, Rosie chirped up from behind: “Lions first?” “Sure thing. Are lions your favourite animal?”

“Yes!” she emphasized her point by recreating a roar. Greg couldn’t help but grin broadly. Rosie was simply too precious to not like her. John could be proud.

“Woah, I didn’t know I had a little cub in my car!”

“I’ma G’ffindor; like Daddy!” Some weeks prior, John told him on the occasional evening in the pub that he started telling her Harry Potter stories (minus the death and violence and Voldemorty parts), to get her prematurely excited for reading books when she was a little older. It seemed to be working pretty well, judging by the utter glee in her voice.

“Are you, now? I’m a Hufflepuff” Greg wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had read all of the books, went to every single movie premiere, and treasured the Hufflepuff house-scarf his daughters had given him as a joke present for his last birthday.

“You’d be a fine Ravenclaw with your brains and all that” he joked light-heartedly, while Rosie babbled on happily about lions in general and Gryffindors in particular.

“I… have no idea what you’re talking about” the politician admitted stiffly. It must take a great toll out of a Holmes to admit not knowing things.

“Really, now? Harry Potter? The books? Magic and Hogwarts and Quidditch and everything?”

“I’ve… never been particularly interested in fictional writing”

“But that’s a modern _classic_! Like Lord of the Rings or… don’t tell me you haven’t seen Lord of the Rings?!”

“I’m also… not familiar with popular cinematic works” Mycroft mumbled, asking himself if he should jump out of the car window right now, to not witness the exact moment before Gregory realized that they had nothing in common whatsoever.

“This is brilliant! I found a topic where I can outsmart a Holmes” He grinned toothy, like it was the best achievement to be smarter than a Holmes.

 “We totally need to have a movie night, can’t have you missing out on such masterpieces-“ he stopped himself when he realized that he probably sounded like a over-enthusiastic teenager. He quickly backtracked. “I mean, only if, if you’re amendable and if you want to at all that is, I mean sorry I get over-excited about these things, you don’t have to-“

“I’d like that”

So, that’s how you get yourself another date with an attractive, influential, politician/genius. Nice one, detective inspector Lestrade.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was more relifed than anything that Gregory didn’t think him as much of a inadequate partner as he had feared. Not that they were…. Partners. Maybe… possible partners? He flushed at the ridiculousness of his own thoughts.

 

 

The zoo wasn’t really crowded, which was a good thing, considering Mycroft’s general dislike of vast masses of people. He still felt totally awkward and uncomfortable with the situation as a whole, but at least there wasn’t an audience to witness it.

There was Gregory, though. Gregory with his casual touches and open laughter and genuine interest, and that, well that was definitely a plus. Because Gregory was a great…. Friend. A handsome and attractive friend, a friend that casually flirted with him - not that the flirting was meant as such, Mycroft was sure that’s just how the detective was, so naturally charming and oh god, he was rambling, wasn’t he?

He wasn’t used to his mind being in such…. disarray over a certain topic. There was no order; his thoughts were all over the place, mixed with emotions he couldn’t quite place, and for some reason he was nervous, although Mycroft Holmes was never nervous, ever. That was a given fact. Yet here he was, so deeply buried in his head, quietly analysing the _feelings_ he was having that he looked up in bewilderment when he realized that there were no longer in front of the lion’s cage, but the penguin enclosure.

“G’eg, look! Pengwengs!”

“Sweetheart, those are called penguins-“

“Sherlock must have thought her that” Mycroft spoke softly, absentmindedly, still quietly analysing the impact of a certain Detective inspector on his life.

“What?” Greg faced him, looking bemused. The intensity of his warm eyes pulled the governmental official right out of his head.

“It’s a minor speech defect. He can’t say the word correctly no matter how often we tried to teach him. Stubborn as he is, he eventually arrived at the conclusion that _he_ is right, while the rest of the world is just wrong” Greg chuckled; that sounded like a very Sherlock-thing to do.

They watched the birds waddle around on their stony beach, before gracefully gliding through the water. He was quite fond of them, Mycroft decided. (And took a moment the appreciate the irony in the ice-man’s fondness of penguins). They had a certain grace, when moving in their natural habitat.

“Did you know that penguins are highly adapted to life in the water? Their distinct tuxedo-like appearance is called countershading, a form of camouflage that helps keep them safe in the water; Countershading works from above by blending the penguin's black back into the dark ocean bottom and from below by blending the white belly into the bright surface of the water. Furthermore, Penguins do have wing-bones, though they are flipper-like and extremely suited to swimming.”

He sighed, fondly thinking back to his younger years, where he had studied biology and botanicas books in most of his free time. It was still an interest of his; animals and plants were far more logical and predictable than human beings would ever be.

A small hand tugged at his sleeve. Looking down, he discovered that Rosie had the most awestruck expression on her face. “Really, Myc?”

Mycroft, momentary perplexed about the open admiration of his intellect, stuttered a little bit: “Uh.. yes. I read it. They’re very talented”

“Do you know things about seals, too?” She pointed shyly to the enclosure right next to the penguins, where five seals lazily laid in the sun.

“I know things about a variety of animals” he answered vaguely.

Greg only shook his head fondly. There was a difference between the genius of the two Holmes brothers. Most people did not bother to look for it, but it couldn’t be missed when actually knowing them. Sherlock was all impulses and experiments and samples, a wild kind of science with unpredictable outcomes. Mycroft in contrast was all strategical knowledge, and books, and proven facts.  

“Tell me?”

“…sure”, he replied, still slightly perplexed that, of all things, his knowledge of animals seemed to connect him to the little Watson. He didn’t miss the appreciating grin Gregory threw in his direction, when he let himself be dragged to the seal-enclosure. Although he decided to ignore the way it made him feel tingly and warm all over. Foolish sentiment.

 

 

The rest of their trip was spent in similar fashion, and Rosie warmed up more and more. By the time they saw every animal Rosie wanted to see, she had grabbed his hand and didn’t even let go when Greg hoisted her on his shoulders. They had gotten some perplexed stares he kindly ignored (although they really must make quite the sight), but the happiness radiating off the two people beside him was worth it. It was a curious sensation; it wasn’t often that people were particularly happy when, or – God forbid- because he was around. People didn’t like him. Seems like there were exceptions to every rule. Gregory was even more at ease than at Baker Street; all smiles and happy little hums, and a warm hand placed against Mycroft’s shoulder – to ground him – both of them- at the situation, at the here and now, at this shared moment.

Midday came and went by in a blur, and just as the warm afternoon sun bathed everything in a golden shimmer, Greg decided it was time for an early dinner. Rosie, normally in need of a nap at around that time of day, was still buzzing with excitement, even more so after Greg relented and bought her a stuffed silver fox in the zoo-shop (She named it ‘G’eg’. The DI mused how long it would take for Sherlock to call it ‘Graham’ out of spite).

If this was what it was like to be appreciated by people, to enjoy their company; then Mycroft had to admit that he had been missing out.

 

 

They found a little pizzeria not far from the zoo’s entrance, with homey boots and a rich smell of Italian herbs; and had settled in their comfortable get together. Sure, he was awkward, and some aspects of the whole scenario still made him incredible uneasy. But it was not half as bad as he thought. The little Watson didn’t hate him per se, and Gregory hadn’t made a run for it, although he could have at any given moment. They stayed. Because they wanted to.

Social interactions never really interested him- they were rigged by emotions and false pretense. Every human being was fake to some extent, everyone egoistical in their aims.

This, however; No, _Gregory_ , however.

Mycroft felt more at peace with himself like he had in years. Because it was easy- so shockingly easy- to like the DI. A gentle strength, a warm appreciation, a good-natured laugh. For the first time in their eight years together, Mycroft did feel at ease enough to let his guard down. Be himself, a little bit more; and the British Government, a little less. It was delightfully terrifying to be vulnerable like this. This day was filled with new revelations about himself, Mycroft mused while absentminded placing his order.

While they waited, Greg got out his phone and snapped a picture of Rosie and her new fox, to “Send it to John, to let him know his little princess’s alright”.

Mycroft presumed the doctor and the DI must have been in contact at some point during the day, which was a small form of relief. It didn’t occur to him before but if the crime-fighting duo would have returned to their home with him and Rosie missing, they’d probably scream bloody murder. Knowing the doctor’s tempter, it probably wouldn’t have stopped at screaming.

Said doctor didn’t just reply, but called promptly. “’ello, mate. The case is coming along alright, yeah? … You’ll be home by 7? That’s good. Oh, we’re fine (here he gave Mycroft a sweet smile that made the politician blush a little, despite himself) Hang on, I’ll ask her”

He poked Rosie’s nose to get her attention, and then pointed at his phone. “You wanna have a quick word with your Daddy, little cub?”

Mycroft listened idly to the side of the conversation he could witness. There was something about the friendliness between them. Something about Doctor Watson and Sherlock. Mycroft had always seen the sturdy little man as a reliable variable in the craze of their everyday life, but lately – through the change of relationship status between him and his brother- he had gotten to know him a little bit better; and started to value him as a person, as well. Not that he’d ever tell anyone. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Daddy!” Rosie squealed in the most excited tone Mycroft had ever heard. It must be nice to trust like that, he thought before he could stop himself. To be so openly affectionate, so unconditionally grateful for another human being. He looked in the DI’s direction without even meaning to, and avoided eye contact as soon as Greg winked at him.

Rosie chatted idly with her father for some minutes, until their order arrived, and Greg coaxed it out of her hands, with a promise that she’d get to see her Daddy and her Sherlock in a little while. The prospect alone was enough to let herself be patiently fed some of the pizza-bread Greg ordered for her.

“She’s good for them” Mycroft suddenly stated (surprising himself for the 3rd time today) between bites of pasta, mainly to fill the sudden silence.

“Rosie? Oh, yeah. John would never agree with me, but he’s a good father. It’s not always easy, I believe. But all the good things aren’t. He tries, he tries very hard and it shows. And don’t even get me started on Sherlock, ha! Their relationship’s the best damn thing that could have happened to these two”

Mycroft nodded, suddenly feeling shy in the prospect of having stated such an intimate thing- he, the ice-man, the man above emotions, the politician clawing to stone-cold logic. These matters of the heart went above his head. They rendered him humble and speechless, at a loss of himself. All he knew was that if it felt like that to be part of a loving family, he felt himself wishing he could be a part of _this_.

Greg must have sensed his insecurity, because he continued talking: “I still remember what it was like when my two were this little, it’s crazy to think how much has changed since then” His gaze grew distant, just for a split second, before he caught himself again, good-naturedly rolled a piece of pizza, and stuffed into Rosie’s greedy little hands. It was messy, but totally worth the bright grin she gave him. “That reminds me of the one time when Amanda-“

The conversation carried on easily, with Greg doing most of the talking and Mycroft listening intently, laughing at the appropriate times, and politely showing his interest.

Before long, their plates were emptied, their bellies filled, and Mycroft’s heart felt warm in an unfamiliar, yet pleasant way.

 

 

While he paid for their food (on his outmost insistence), Greg tied to clean Rosie’s face with a napkin. The little girl, still not a big fan of getting clean, pouted a bit.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that” Greg cooed, before smooching her cheek soundly to cheer her up. Predictably, Rosie giggled.

“That smile deserves another kiss!” Greg announced, before he rubbed his nose against Rosie’s in an eskimo kiss. The little girl squealed, before she turned to the third person on the table, grinning like the sun.

 “G’eg, My needs a kiss a’well!”

Mycroft felt all of his blood rushing rapidly to his face and silently asked himself if the little Watson somehow managed to find out about his….. sentiment towards the DI. Greg looked just as gobsmacked.

“Rosie, I don’t really think that’s-“

“He’s smiling, you said smiles get kisses!”

Well. Can’t really argue with that logic.

Not really how the DI imagined flirting with the older Holmes brother to go, but it seemed like Rosie wouldn’t let the issue drop. So, before he could talk himself out of it, or Mycroft cold make a run for it, he leaned in and placed the tiniest little pecks against the other man’s cheek. Even though the contact was feather-light, it still sent sparks through the politician’s veins. It was this moment that Mycroft decided to stop lying to himself about his obvious attraction to the inspector. Dear God, he was a lost cause. Greg looked a little bit sheepish himself, but Rosie was delighted by the turn of events. They left the restaurant in awkward silence.

On their way home, Greg spoke lowly to the other men, without Rosie hearing: “I’m sorry if that was too forward. Maybe I shouldn’t have-“

“Don’t you worry, Gregory. It was” -here he cleared his throat sheepishly- “appreciated”

It should be illegal to look as smug as Gregory Lestrade did for the rest of the drive home.

 

 

Mycroft found himself perched up against his brother’s couch twenty minutes later, with a droopy-eyed little girl tucked against his side and a colorful picture book on his lap. His calm reading voice filled the air, low and gentle, while he felt the efforts of the day making him tired as well. He was never one for naps, but today was apparently the day he would totally step out of his comfort zone. Rosie was snoring next to him not only ten minutes later, her new toy fox tugged securely under her chin.

Despite himself, Mycroft felt his eyelids drop as well. He didn’t fight it.

 

 

When Greg returned to the living room with two steaming cups of tea, he silently awed at the sight before him. Who knew Mycroft Holmes could make such an adorable sight. He quietly snapped a picture, right before the door unlocked and the dynamic duo tumbled back into their flat.

“We’re home!-“

“Schhh!” Greg shushed the doctor and pointed to the domestic scene on the couch.

The doctor’s face crumbled in a soft expression filled with parental pride; and even Sherlock forgot to be snarky towards his brother for five minutes and chuckled quietly.

“Successful day, I presume?”

“ ’twas a bit of a wonky start, but we got there”.

In more ways than one, he felt like, but that didn’t need to be brought on the open just yet. Although he probably wasn’t really subtle, smiling fondly towards the sofa. Sherlock gave him the funny look that always meant he had him figured out, but said nothing, just passing them, to wake the little girl gently (for she would be upset if she found out that her parents returned without waking her).

“Rise and shine, sleepy” he mumbled affectionate, and laughed openly, when the waking girl immediately grabbed his hands in a happy act of recognition.

Greg watched John watch Sherlock and Rosie, and the genuine emotion on the doctor’s face touched him deeper than he had anticipated. He was happy for them, happy that they finally found each other and their own piece of family life.

When Sherlock lifted Rosie and brought her over for John to greet her with a proper hug and a slightly choked-up sounding “Hey, honey”; Greg’s attention focused on the rising figure of Mycroft.

He still looked slightly mussed from his short nap, yawned discretely, and stood, pretending he hadn’t been falling asleep over Winnie the pooh thirty minutes ago. He came over, regaining some of his condescending cold air, now that the responsibility for the little Watson was shifted back to her actual caregivers.

“Thanks for taking care of her” John addressed both men, while Sherlock bounced Rosie lightly on his hip and asked her about her new stuffed animal.

“I’m sorry it was kind of rushed, but, yeah. It seems like you enjoyed yourselves”

 Mycroft had the decency to blush and say nothing, while Greg laughed and patted he politician’s shoulder affectionately.

“We were alright, mate, no worries! Anytime you need a babysitter, just hit us up, yeah?”

John, not believing that he was not met with resistance by one Mycroft Holmes, smirked, also catching on about the slight shift in the relationship status of these two. He would interrogate Greg over a pint on pub night. “Cheers, Greg”

“Yes, yes, eternal gratefulness and all these other socially appropriate norms- John, let’s get her to bed”

John shook his head at his partner’s antics, but smiled. “Well, gentlemen, you heard the man”

 

 

Before they knew it, they found themselves on the doorstep of Mycroft’s townhouse (for Greg had offered him a lift, insisting that his driver shouldn’t be bothered when he had a car at hand).

“Well” Greg started intelligently, suddenly feeling shy. “I had fun today”

“The sentiment is reciprocated”

Mycroft felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, a mixture of warm satisfaction and humming anticipation rushed through his bloodstream. He shouldn’t feel like this. He was Mycroft Holmes. He was the ice-man, the British government. People feared him. Wars stopped because of him. He shouldn’t crush on a detective inspector. But he’d be dammed, if it didn’t feel so good.

Greg scratched the back of his neck, smile tugging in the corner of his lips. “Are we still on about the movies?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find some room on my schedule”

“Good.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Gregory” The politician actually smiled up at him, open and happy and wonderful.

“Hey” Greg started, playfully elbowing the younger man in the side. “You know what this smile deserves?”

Mycroft failed to find a witty response, because before he knew it, a part of lips lightly brushed his own. It only lasted some seconds, but they were enough to make him realize that he would do anything to make this work; even throw his self-doubt out of the window. If Greg really wanted him, then he could have him, and Mycroft would be the happiest person in London.

Greg smiled softly at the gentle expression on the politician’s usual so stoic face. Maybe he managed to melt the ice-man’s exterior a little bit, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta-ed or anything, feel free to correct mistakes! Also, the title is shit, sorry. 
> 
> Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make my day <3


End file.
